


A Trip to Manila

by Gearsmoke



Category: Metalocalypse
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Character Death, Drug Use, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Psychological Trauma, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-15
Updated: 2016-06-15
Packaged: 2018-07-15 04:02:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7206947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gearsmoke/pseuds/Gearsmoke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Years condensed into a single package, sent by post.</p><p>This is a gift for the 2016 Hearts n' Guts exchange - however that community seems to have um, gone into a coma... and I think my recipient has waited long enough.  The tough part will be finding them to let them know I've posted this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Trip to Manila

 

 

 

A Trip To Manila

 

  
  
'I hate you.'  
  
The fat, heavy ochre package had been delivered a while ago. Delivered but put aside, forgotten, left for weeks waiting patiently to fulfill its duty. It was random curiosity, not any special deliberation that gave it that; Mouth torn open, the envelope sighed with the withdrawal of its contents, and then fell away to its rest, no longer a part of this story.  
  
So now there was a fat manila folder, much the same hue as its bygone envelope, albeit some shades lighter, worn to a fray at its corners and held together with elastic bands. One word, front and centre, written in neat, geometric handwriting: 'Pickles.'  
  
And on opening this, the recipient confronts those first three words, in heavy-handed blue ballpoint on lined paper, the letters retraced until they're nearly black, ink-bruised and bleeding:

 

* * *

 

'I hate you'.  
  
Etched with such vitriol that the ghosts of them remain on subsequent pages.  
  
Pickles flips back that first page, and although he can still read the original words, over them is written in a calmer pen: 'That's not true. I don't hate you. I want to.' Softened letters try to console after the initial outburst. 'I wish I could hate you. That would be so much easier, if I could hate you. You'd deserve it.'  
  
In 2002, that pen wrote as its owner sipped single-malt scotch and let his fingers convey an undiluted train of thought. 'That's not really true, either. I hate what happened.' He continued.  
  
'I've had a lot of time since we last talked to just think about that. What you said. What I said. What went wrong when I thought we had it so good. How I fucked up. I blame myself as much as I blame you, so I can't really hate you. At least, not more than I hate myself.  
  
I don't want to end things the way we left them. I'm not asking to get back into the band, but we could work something out. We need to talk about money and writing credits anyway. You have my mailing address now, so just write back, or call me. '

Magnus added his phone number down near the bottom, then flipped the sheet over, exposing a fresh span of paper, though he could still see those first three words embossed into its fibre.  
  
'I hate you.'  
  
He deliberately wrote over them; 'Songs contributed to by Magnus Hammersmith.' And listed below the tracks in which Dethklok were using his work. It wasn't a long list, and he was disappointed by that, so he added some that the band weren't using, just in case they ever did.

 

* * *

 

Presently, Pickles doesn't bother to read the list, it's history. It's all history, of course, but this at least is a part he already knows. The meandering, distracted route through emotion and detachment had been typical of the guy since they'd met, but over the course of their friendship, the periods of drama had gradually outpaced the good times.  
  
In 1993, not long after they'd met, Pickles was sitting in a booth in a Battery Park nightclub, laughing and doing lines openly off the breasts of a girl in blue body paint, mildly hypnotized by the abstract soundscapes crafted by the live DJ, to be heard once and never played the same way again.

   
It was a good night, they'd just finished their tour, and were back in New York to talk recording and the possibility of getting their opening band signed to their label – they liked being introduced to new talent, and the market was still hungry for it. So Pickles and the rest of Snakes n' Barrels, along with Magnus and his crew, plus assorted groupies, had occupied two tables at a ridiculously exclusive and expensive club to celebrate.  


The redheaded singer was in a pleasant, warm place, pressed between his bandmates and the girls, all yelling to hear each other over the music, he could just let the drugs wash over him without worrying about falling or getting lost. Candy's hair was in his face and he sneezed at it, laughed, and then one of their female companions was straddling his lap, pressing her chest into Pickles' face to 'wipe his nose'...  
  
“Hey! You! Get back here, dumbass!” Magnus' voice managed to cut through the thumping bass, “This isn't what I wanted! I ordered a vodka martini! Is this a vodka martini?! Do you know how to do your fucking job!?” The girls went quiet and turned to see what the fuss was, which just riled Magnus further, sending him into a rage over being 'judged'. It was the kind of tantrum that he'd later blame on the coke or lack of sleep, a 'rare' outburst of temper, that's all.  
  
Unfortunately they didn't stay rare.

 

* * *

 

The next letter Pickles finds is written on fancy stationery with Magnus' old Cincinnati mailing address in the header. It's much older than the previous, penned in a neat, upsweeping hand, optimism and clarity in each stroke. 'Hey dude! Happy New Year! We had a great time in New Orleans, looking forward to meeting up again for the CS festival. Bring the girls if you can, we can always use more! We've got a manager now, you should talk to him, really smart guy. You told me you were thinking of getting into something heavier, maybe a side project, and I think I can help with that.  
  
I'm including the schedule for our dates, so you know when we're available if you want us on tour again. Really Chuck should be talking care of this from now on, but we're still getting him up to speed.'

In 1995, Magnus was living in a trailer with three other guys, sharing a joint between them and chatting while he wrote to his 'totally famous' friend, Pickles. “He's a great guy,” Magnus told them, he was going to propose a side project – of course he'd still have time for their band, he reassured them; he wasn't going anywhere. After all, his parents' money paid for everything, all their equipment – they'd be fucked without him.  
  
In seven short years he'd be on a train back to Chicago, trying to get his back on his feet. This was long after the dissolution of his own band, Snakes n' Barrels was history, and Magnus had made his own theatric departure from Dethklok. Staring out the window at frosted, bare trees, still not entirely sure what had happened to send it all down the tubes so quickly.  
  
Oh, right, he'd knifed the lead singer in the back. Why'd he do that? If he'd believed in such things, he might have assumed a demon had invaded his mind, blinded him with rage, and controlled his hand. The memory of the act had that kind of possessed distance, blurry and surreal. He remembered the heat rising, the sound of blood in his head rushing louder and louder, and then losing himself in an adrenaline-fueled chaos.  
  
Some hours later, Magnus had calmed down enough to consider his actions, knowing he'd done something impossibly stupid. But when he'd gone back to the house, either to reconcile or just to collect his things, the sight of the place sent him into another fit of temper.  
  
He'd cut his hand deeply to write his farewell, so much so that he'd need physiotherapy for over a year to be able to play with his previous dexterity. The next time he'd see anyone from Dethklok, it'd be in a courtroom.  
  
No choice is made without consequences.  


* * *

  
Early 2000 produced another letter: 'Hey, Pickles. It was nice to see you. I know it could have been under better circumstances and we didn't really get a chance to talk, but I guess it's good that we worked things out re: the writing credits. Chuck didn't seem that happy to see me, but I got the check so I guess that's a done deal. I'm still up for seeing you sometime, just to hang out, like the old days. I didn't get a chance to get your new number, so you can call whenev'

The pen halted, Magnus took a slow, calming breath and flipped to a fresh sheet;  
  
'I don't want to keep going on about it, Pickles. But you betrayed me. Not just when you kicked me out of the band, I'm talking about way before that. After Luke quit and you brought home some stupid kid nobody knew shit about and told us he was our new lead singer. What the fuck were you thinking?'  
  
That really hadn't been cool. Magnus had expected at least the courtesy of being asked. But Pickles did his own thing by habit - he'd already been famous, and that had given him a sense of entitlement which manifested in selfish, autonomous decision-making.  
  
'That's how you screwed me over. I realize now that I was out the day you met him. Out of the band, out of your life. You looked at him like he was some kind of fucking miracle, like you'd never loved anything else in your entire life. It was disgusting and I was too jealous to stand it.'  
  
In the present, Pickles frowns, his brow furrowing as he unknowingly mimics the gesture of tumbler to mouth that Magnus had done in the past as he had written the indictment.  The drummer remembers, though not as clearly as he'd like, the introduction of Nathan to the band. Had he really been mooning after him so blatantly?  
  
'It's not like you lead me on, it was just fun. You told me that how many times? You don't get serious with bandmates, it was a rule. Ok, fine. I knew when we started with that shit what I was getting myself into, and I thought I was okay with it. Hell, I'm surprised you didn't screw around with the Swedish spruce, but you probably can't compete, that guy attracts pussy like a tuna boat.' Pickles winces, that's low.

'And then you bring home this kid, and you were too fucking serious. You broke the rules. You couldn't break them for me, but you meet some muscled-up sunburned moron and that's the end of it. And it just hurt so fucking much to watch you throw yourself at him and bounce right off because he's too stupid to realize. I thought maybe if you bruised yourself on a brick wall enough you'd give up. But I never got to see that. Instead, you took his side and threw me out. You threw me away. Fuck you, you threw me away before I ever left.'

 

* * *

 

Pickles puts the folder aside. He should never have opened it, he should have thrown it away as soon as he knew who it was from. But Magnus was gone, had been gone for a lot longer than he'd been dead, if he's to be honest with himself. These documents are the last trace of a friend that Pickles had once cared for deeply, had watched devolve into a paranoid animal, completely unable to help.  
  
He leaves the folder on his bed and goes to take a shower, to try to wash the anxiety away.  
  
Isn't it odd, considers the drummer, that he gave up on flirting with Nathan not that long after Magnus left. Toki had shown up, and everything had changed rather abruptly after that, fame had found them, had launched itself into their laps like an oversized and filthy dog.  It had demanded all their energy and focus - Pickles didn't have time for such games anymore, and wouldn't for a long while.  
  
And yet, he and Nathan had wandered into each other years later. Pickles had won that battle only after he'd stopped fighting it, letting Nathan warm to him on his own terms. It seems ridiculously obvious in retrospect: Nathan wasn't that thick - he had opted to ignore Pickles' advances rather than reject his bandmate outright, the vocalist knew a complicated situation when he saw one, and dodged it with far more finesse and gentleness than most people would ever give him credit for.

  
As for Skwisgaar – well, Pickles had taken that tour and decided not to invest. The tall blond was certainly physically attractive, but if one likes their intimacy to be, well, intimate, Skwisgaar is not the place to shop. And the guy seems almost incapable of having fun; he does his job in such a precise and jaded way, it's like going to a dentist who gives you an orgasm instead of a filling. Which is just weird and really a turn-off if you think about it too much.

 

* * *

 

When he next picks up the folder, Pickles finds a collection of clippings from magazines and newspapers in a plastic zip-top bag. Mostly about himself, some about Dethklok, a few about Charles or Magnus or other things Pickles didn't quite understand. A young girl had hung herself in the old house they'd shared in the Bronx, one informs. Interesting, Pickles supposes, but that's got nothing to do with him.  
  
Many of them are just printed photos, Grey and ghostly and lacking context, his own face smiles in intaglio halftones on brittle and yellowed newsprint. A chronology of images from the band's first newsworthy efforts up to about a year before Pickles finally opened the folder to see them.

   
A second letter follows the clippings, and the drummer lays back to read it.  
  
2004, November. Magnus was in LA again. He wrote this fact in the header of a fresh page. The letter progressed as a vapid anthology of small talk; 'I'm sharing a place with some kids in an indie band. Their lead singer Brian sounds like a chick and I'm too nice to tell them they're terrible. But they're really polite and keep up the chores and rent so I guess that's good enough.' His hand shook slightly, and he glanced at the plastic bottles on his dresser. Did he take his medications last night? He couldn't remember, it was getting so hard to keep track of. Had he taken them the night before?  
  
'You could visit sometime.' He wrote, then nearly scribbled it out. No, leave it in. He'll never visit so it doesn't matter. It'll be a joke. 'I hear that new guitarist is working out. He's good, I've seen you play with him, yeah, I go to your concerts. You've got to know that, even if you never see me. And you've got a big label contract and everything now, I know I could have never given you that, I'm happy for you.'  
  
Lies, damned lies. Magnus clenched his fingers around the pen. Would he ever send Pickles these letters? Would he ever actually read them? It doesn't matter. It's the writing that's important. He thinks about the relationships within the band. Was Pickles still infatuated with his pet vocalist? He no longer watched Nathan with that sickening, wistful hunger; had he finally given it up? After chewing the cap of his pen for a while, Magnus vetoed mentioning it. He didn't want to know, envy was for weaker people. Younger people.

 

* * *

 

In his room, in the present, Pickles wonders about the niceties in this second letter. It's so mundane, yet so strained, full of unspoken, unknowable messages. How much harm had he done by getting involved with Magnus? He's pretty sure the end of that relationship had at least helped fuel the older man's transformation into the abusive, violent, controlling asshole that had eventually sunk a hunting knife into Nathan's shoulder. Pickles thinks it typical that he blames himself. Why not? Doesn't everyone else?

That's enough for one day, he thinks, he's getting moody again. Pickles puts the folder aside with an only-slightly-dirty sock in place of a bookmark, knowing full well he'll be back. He eats, watches TV with the band, and wonders if he should tell Nathan about the folder. But then Nathan would probably want to see it, and there were things in there that Pickles had never told him. Is not ready to tell him.

Yet he's contrite, and Nathan wonders what he did to deserve the extra affection that comes of it. He's not thick enough to ask and ruin the moment. Instead he relaxes quietly with his hand resting at the small of his friend's back, both naked and tangled in the sheets on Nathan's bed. Happy with their arrangement, and hardly foolish enough to question each other, they both know their own egos and the limits of such fragile things.

 

* * *

  
Pickles returns to the folder a few days later, having taken the time to brace himself for the emotional ride to come. The next letter, pages still glued together as they came off the pad, was written by a completely different person than the last, yet still identifiable as Magnus' hand.

'This is stupid. Why am I doing this to myself?' Magnus asks, 'You're never going to want to be part of my life again. I keep hoping you still feel something. But I don't think you ever did. I was just one of your flings, you were slumming it when you fucked me.'

'Let me tell you what an asshole you are,' And then Magnus listed a number of instances where Pickles had either done something or not done something that had somehow pissed the older guitarist off. Ranging from 'not putting milk back in the fridge' to 'leaving my car on the freeway and walking home'.

Pickles laughs to himself, yeah, he does that. He's probably on his eighth car, and he doesn't even bother driving anymore. He knows he's kind of a dick, hell, he's proud of it. He deserves to be a dick after being everyone's doormat for the first half of his life. Magnus doesn't get it, he never had to eat his own self-esteem, never had to give away the shreds of his dignity to sleep somewhere dry and safe for a night. Magnus came from a better family, from people who'd never let him starve on the street. Even when they'd shared that shitty house on Montgomery. Even when they spent their food money on booze and weed, Magnus had always had something to fall back on.

Between pages, and out of chronological order, a single Polaroid: A slim redhead, barely an adult, his hair all sweat-curled and wild. The younger Pickles smiles out at his aging self from a fog of weed and years and a delusion of immortality. He remembers this from his first trip to the Philippines with Snakes n' Barrels. Magnus had been in their opening band, touring the islands together, and ultimately partying together. On a hotel bed strewn with bottles, bongs, and bodies, the feral boy wearing nothing but a pair of tiger-print silk hotpants, hooker boots and a fur jacket, with his thighs spread as wide and careless as his grin. '1993' says the back of the photo.

Life was really good for a while, wasn't it? And weirdly, infinitely more satisfying at a heart-deep level than the isolated life of a super-famous, insanely-rich celebrity. When they'd met, Magnus had been a really cool guy. Funny, charming, considerate, and often sweet under the coating of smug worldliness.  
  
In 1996, Snakes and Barrels had broken up – for good this time, they said, and Pickles had been too naïve and too angry to think about what he was owed financially. He was out of a home, broke, no friends he could call on... Except for Mags. He had a couch and a beer waiting for him when he had needed it, and a supportive ear for his post-breakup melodrama.  
  
When Magnus had started putting Dethklok together – it wasn't called that at the time, of course – he'd already brought in William and Luke, both from a band he'd met in New Mexico, and this creepy blond guy who could barely speak English and had some Scandinavian word salad for a name (whom his manager Chuck had introduced them to), and had asked Pickles to be a part of it.  
  
And as long as he'd been unilaterally in charge, Magnus was great. He kept everyone happy, even if they weren't really making any money, it was fine; they were having fun. It wasn't until the change in the power dynamic, represented by Pickles' bringing Nathan into the band, that things started getting dicey.

The photo is followed by a single folded notepad sheet that just says 'Jake', included like an afterthought. Pickles had confided that name to Magnus one night while they'd laid together in the bed they'd shared out of necessity before it'd become convenient to screw in it. Only his birth certificate, lost somewhere in a forgotten wallet, still called him that. Even his SSI card reads 'Pickles T. Drummer' – proof of the clout of a truly excellent lawyer and near-inexhaustible funds.

Next are a number of semi-abstract doodles and notes (bet on Cardinals, buy milk, call landlord about bedbugs, etc,) and four or five blank sheets – Pickles imagines a lot of this stuff was included in the package unintentionally – before writing resumes.  
  
'Pickles, please talk to me. I'm getting worried. I know this is going to sound insane, but hear me out. I've been having dreams about you.'

 

* * *

  
  
In 2006, Magnus ran his tongue over his lips, considering his words. 'That's not really weird. I've had dreams about you for years. But this is different from the usual _I never got to resolve my problems_ bullshit. These are scary real feeling, and they're starting to come true.  Not exactly how it happens in the dream, but close, the same idea, like I'm seeing into the future through a lens. I'm seeing earthquakes and storms and weird shit, and then I read about them in the news. You've got to know what I'm talking about.'  
  
'Something's going to happen, and I feel like it'll probably be bad. And I almost wish I could stop it because I don't want you to get hurt. But I kind of do, because then it'd be over, I'd never have to see you again.' By this point, he'd stopped going to Dethklok's concerts. They were becoming too rowdy for a man in his forties. Kids were getting trampled in the mosh pits, random crazies were stabbing people in the rabid morass of fans. The rising violence only bolstered his conviction that this was all portentous, leading up to... something either momentous or tragic. Quite possibly both.

'Call me.' He wrote, and then added his number again, since he'd never sent the earlier letter. Maybe he'd send this one. Would Pickles just think he was crazy? Maybe he was. Maybe he should go back on the meds. He couldn't tell if they were helping, but he didn't have such vivid nightmares until after he'd stopped taking them.

Setting this letter aside, the next item Pickles finds is a smaller manilla filing envelope. This one is full of sheet music and lyrics, everything Magnus had written for early 'Death Clock', as well as things he'd written since. The lyrics weren't particularly good, but they were emotionally heavy, betraying a mind that was frightened and unraveling, dissociating into nonsensical phrases and accusations.

 _'You've become hounds by the thousand,_  
_baying at my door,_  
 _Fingers scratching at the cracks in the floor,_  
 _Silence, Faust is screaming and I can take no more'_

Pickles flips through the songs and places them with what he's looked at already, now a taller stack than that which he hasn't. He notes the passing of that halfway mark with relief and sadness. Soon this experience will be over, and Magnus will be gone again. Soon it will be finished and the ache of memory will be gone as well.

 

* * *

 

It gets worse before it'll get better, though. Next after the music are several rectangles of age-stained graph paper. Originally two sheets that had been folded into quarters and torn, one with a small '1998' written in the upper corner. In pencil, in looping cursive, the damning words 'I love you' stand out from a gut-aching assortment of flowery admissions. 'I miss you, I want you', they whisper, the graphite smudged, illegible in places.

 Who had written this? Were these words even meant for him? Pickles can't be sure, he didn't see his name there, didn't really look for it, but why else would that torn-up love letter be in the package? Had Magnus been hiding these from him? The drummer scowls and shoves the scraps deep into the envelope with the songs. He doesn't want to see them again, and he decides he's done with the folder for the day.

 He needs a drink. He needs several drinks. He needs a lot of drinks and to be fucked hard until he forgets.  
  
_Everything good falls apart, doesn't it, Jake?_

   
It takes him some weeks to return to the folder this time. He knows it's going to hurt, he's been looking at it indecisively for days before actually picking it up. Even before he selects something to read, his stomach is tight and nervous. There's not much left now, and the closer he gets to the end of it, the worse he feels about it, yet the stronger the urge to see it through.

In 2008, the guitarist cut off a lock of his own hair and folded it into a page torn from a magazine, he wasn't sure why, but something told him to do this. The world had become surreal to him, to the extent that he'd become dependent on the reactions of other people to judge his surroundings and circumstances. Yet he was able to maintain a facade of normality, function like a human being most of the time. The band he'd been living with were actually becoming pretty successful, and had hired him on as an engineer, so he had torn out the article about them and put his hair into it, slipping it between the pages of his most recent letter. Look, he thought, I am doing fine without you. You can go away now.

But Pickles never went away. He kept appearing, haunting Magnus from screens, billboards, newsstands - an inescapable presence that felt _personal_ despite never actually being there in person. The aversion to it had forced Magnus into becoming a recluse, leaving his apartment only for work or food; a self-imposed isolation for which he resented his ex-bandmates – all of them, but Pickles most of all.  
  
'I can't talk to you anymore. I thought it would be good for me to get all this stuff out of my system, but it's not helping. I just have more and more and more coming out of me, and I'm not talking to the person who I used to know anymore, I'm talking to this thing that looks like you and follows me around wherever I go. I'm done writing to you, not like you'll ever see any of it. I sent you some cards the past couple of Christmases, so I'm pretty sure you'll never write back by now. I'm still having those dreams, but I know you'll be alright, you don't need me to rescue you. I'm tired of it, I just want to be left alone.'

  
After that, Magnus had kept adding things to the folder, but no more letters. Articles about the band, about Pickles, concert stubs and promos, some mixed photos from Magnus' own life. Polaroids of a little girl – four or five years old – with dark curls, who Pickles later assumed to be the older man's daughter. But no explanation was included, so he couldn't be sure.  
  
He leaves it for another day, returning to the present, and his life, and the upcoming South Pacific tour. A tropical vacation sounds pretty good at the moment, the 'Haus feels colder than usual. Some unnatural chill having sunk itself into his chest since he'd started reading the contents of that damned package. Don't think about it, he tells himself. The hot tub is waiting, and he can have a zombie and watch TV with the people who matter to him _now_.

 

* * *

 

 

After letting another week go by between efforts, the damn thing lays open on his bed again. Most of the rest of the folder's contents consist of more scrapbook items, and Pickles glances at them only perfunctorily on his way to the bottom of the stack. He's worked his way down to what seems to be the last stapled set of sheets, a particularly thick one, and he leafs through it. The drummer's heart clenches when he realizes what it is that he's looking at.  
  
In 2010, Magnus had become completely withdrawn from the world. At this point he'd confined his social interaction to a small group on the internet, people who kept their names and locations confidential, because they knew all too well the dangers of indiscretion. A widespread network of ex-Klokateers, venue workers, family members of Dethklok's many casualties, spurned groupies, defeated professionals, and disfigured survivors of their concerts – all angry, justice-hungry victims of the great metal machine. His people.

Now and then, though not terribly often, someone would guess Magnus' identity. This brought a mix of pride and fear, but it wouldn't matter all that much. Nobody could know where he was. He was clever enough to use a network of proxies designed by someone far smarter than himself. And in that security, he spoke, perhaps, more freely than he should have.  
  
It was about a year later that Magnus met 'V' in one of the community's chatrooms. 'V' had chosen to introduce himself, claimed he'd been watching Magnus for a while, and was … intrigued. What followed was a series of conversations that, as they grew darker and more plausible, pulled Magnus back into reality. 'V's vitriolic rants somehow grounded the guitarist in a way that medications had failed.

Here, Magnus thought, was someone possibly crazier than he was. He didn't know what the 'V' stood for, but he suspected the fellow was a fan of that 'Guy Fawkes' movie from a few years ago. From the way he talked, it was a fitting homage.

 

* * *

 

A confessional of sorts, Pickles reads through printed internet conversations between Magnus and 'V'. At first, their conversations center on grievances against the band; they'd compare stories, tell nasty jokes or anecdotes, and generally support each other in their disdain. But while Magnus wants to vent and let go, 'V' encourages him to hold onto his hate, foster it, cultivate it into an active resentment. What was first simply idle bitching grows into more and more complex 'what if?' scenarios. What if they could really destroy the metal machine? What if they could really get even...?

Through the pages, 'V' evolves from a confidant into a co-conspirator, and together he and Magnus construct their plans, talking as if they intended wholly to carry them out given an opportunity. They know details about the Mordland compound that Pickles himself doesn't, discussing schedules and weapons, events, tours, and the messages they intend to deliver. Magnus talks about 'knocking them down a peg', and 'putting them in their place', but his partner is evasive about his endgame.  
  
During their chats, 'V' mentions an attack on Mordhaus that actually took place a few years ago, and brags about having been an instrumental party in that. “I've killed dozens of their lackeys, they're never missed.” He brags, and nearly loses Magnus at this point, who expresses discomfort at the idea of murder.  
  
“I had to, they're trained to kill anyone who trespasses on the property.” V typed. It was 2012, and by then, he already knew nearly everything about Magnus Hammersmith. He even had a nearly exact idea of where the man was hiding.  He also knew how to pull the man's strings. “We burned their fucking house down, though. It was a beautiful bonfire.”  
  
“I saw that on MyTube. It really was amazing. But you didn't actually kill any of the band. You didn't even kill Chuck... their manager.” His ex-manager, he reflects. He was actually pretty upset when he thought ol' Offdensen had kicked it in the fire. It wasn't that he wanted any of them dead – except, perhaps, Nathan – but he wanted to know where V stood on the idea.  
  
“It wasn't my intent.” V lied, “But we failed to stop the machine, the gears just kept grinding on. It's time to throw another wrench in the works...”  
  
Under 'V's manipulative grooming, their planning became more concrete, eventually targeting Roy's funeral. They'd managed to recruit dozens to their cause, and the chat logs became littered with short interactions with 'lesser officers' of the Revengencer army. 'V' had whipped them into a mindless fervor, they were all willing to throw themselves into the machinery if it meant destroying Dethklok.  
 

Included with these transcripts, Pickles finds diagrams, schedules, detailed planning up to the very day before they'd actually executed the attack.  
  
Oh, Mags... how could you?  
  
Pickles thinks he should probably give this last set of pages to Charles, that 'V' nutjob might still be out there. He sets the documents aside and notices one last folded note left unread. Opening it, a receipt slips free, and there is only one short line written on the page.  
  
'I'm sorry. I told you this would happen. I don't plan to be around afterward.' Perhaps Magnus had seen into his future, after all.  
  
The receipt has the number and address of a U-Store-It locker just outside Burbank, along with a written code. Pickles can only assume there's something in it that his old bandmate wanted him to have. Or a bomb. It could be a bomb. He'll send some 'teers to go check that out.  
  
Dethklok never has to wait long for anything. Within a day the last of Magnus' possessions have been inventoried and reported:  
  
One original 1990 Les Paul Studio guitar, black.  
One leather jacket, also black.  
One antique Turkish rug with a wine stain on it – that's a whole other story.  
And one very large filing box crammed with vinyl LPs.  
  
The drummer agrees over the phone to pay to have the items shipped to him... He has a lot of questions, a lot of internal conflict, but he can work out how to feel about the stuff later. The U-Store-It's owner was within a couple weeks of auctioning it off, so it's just as well that he'd called.  
  
He hangs up and it's done. It's finished. Magnus is gone again.

Pickles puts the final note and the receipt back into the folder, replaces the rubber bands and holds the heavy sheaf in both hands. Silently, and for several minutes, just thinking. He'll take it to the archival safe downstairs, no need to mention it to anyone else. Not just yet, at least.

 In some ways, as long as he has this, he still has his friend. A long-lost voice recalled from death while Pickles reads each fragile document.  


 Maybe he'll go back to Manila some day.  


 


End file.
